The Woman At Front Two

Image of burned-out matches.

The woman at table Front Two does not look happy.

This seems wildly unfair, given that she is drop-dead gorgeous and reeks of money. I am at a stage in my life where I’m sure having a hot body and a little extra cash would solve all my problems, with some self-esteem left over to share with friends and acquaintances. The woman in the caramel-colored suit and white silk blouse should be lighting up that end of the room; instead, she’s generating her own gravity, pulling the light down into herself and smothering it.

Maybe she just needs a nice slice of cheesecake.

“More coffee?”

“Please.”

I top up her cup and stand back. “Anything else I can do for you?”

She takes a sip. I admire her bracelet, a chunky thing made of grayish-blue stones the color of a fresh bruise. She looks up at me, and I see that her eyes are the same color.

“I think that’s highly unlikely, don’t you?” she says.

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